


when the night is over

by soulofme



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, POV Alternating, Pining Shiro (Voltron), Teenagers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, best friends keith & shiro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 00:17:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17335103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulofme/pseuds/soulofme
Summary: “Why do you care?”He’s close, close enough that Shiro can see the way the moon casts shadows on his face, makes his cheeks look hollow, his eyes empty, and something, something so heavy, so intense, swirls in the pit of his stomach.He could lean over, he realizes, lean over and press their lips together. They’re close enough he could say it was a mistake, that he didn’t mean it, even though he honestly, truly, did.





	when the night is over

**Keith**

 

 

It’s June when they lower his father into the ground, in a shiny casket that reflects the last dying rays of the sun. The air is humid from the earlier rainstorm, his crisp shirt pasted to his skin from the moisture.

They don’t talk about it at first, he and Shiro. Shiro offers to drive him home, and he looks at his mom’s car, parked at the curb. She’s talking to her brother, Kolivan, gesticulating wildly, hands waving through the air, voice getting louder and louder.

“Let’s go,” Keith says, roughly, and Shiro looks surprised for all of two seconds before he nods and leads Keith to his car.

They pass his mother on the way. Keith doesn’t look at her, not when she calls her name, not even when Kolivan walks towards him, footsteps heavy. When he gets in Shiro’s car, a sleek black Camaro, his pride and joy, he swears he can still hear them echoing in his head.

“Drive,” he tells Shiro, even as Kolivan taps on the window, mouth pulled into a severe grimace.

Shiro looks at him dumbly, eyes wide, mouth half-open, but then he puts the car into gear and pulls away from the curb. Keith presses his head against the window, lets the cold glass press against his cheek.

“Don’t take me home.”

“Keith—”

“ _Don’t_.”

Shiro doesn’t. He takes them to Lake Marshall. He parks in front of the outlook, hands still on the steering wheel, and Keith watches a family of ducks waddle along the bank.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says then, barely loud enough to be heard, and Keith tries to ignore it. Honest to god he _does_ , but the words get stuck in his ear, make themselves comfortable until he has no choice but to listen to them.

“Do people mean it when they say that?” he asks, eyes still trained on the ducks. Shiro’s air conditioner hasn’t worked in weeks, so they’ve got the windows open to let the air in. The hot breeze makes his entire body feel clammy.

“I—yeah, Keith. People tend to mean it,” Shiro says. There’s this edge to his voice, something tense, and Keith’s the one who put it there.

“Right. Of course.”

Shiro shifts, looking oddly out of place even though it’s _his_ damn car, jaw working hard, not saying a single word.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, finally, just as Keith swears he can hear the _tick_ of the seconds passing them by.

“No,” he says, and he ignores the resigned expression taking residence on Shiro’s face.

 

 

 

 

He tries to do things to get his mind off of it, just for a while.

He rides his bike into the middle of nowhere more times than he can count. He only stops when he runs out of gas one time, and he’s forced to push it back home, bitching the whole way. His mother must’ve called Kolivan while he was gone, because his uncle snatches his keys from him just as he gets through the door.

“You’re done,” Kolivan had said, with an air of finality, and Keith remembers thinking he hadn’t looked nearly as intimidating as he usually did.

He wasn’t done, though. Not by a long shot. He doesn’t need a bike to get out of the house. Walking just means he can’t go as far as he usually does, can’t watch Garrison, Arizona bleed away into the background, a no-name town that no one will ever care about. No one but the residents, anyway.

He’s out today, walking, when he sees it. Shiny neon letters, shiny metallic building. It looks like a glamorized shed. Elysium, he reads, over and over, until the flashing sign bearing the club’s name makes his eyes burn.

The club is dark and loud, all music pounding in his skull, running through his veins. Keith’s dizzy with it, pushing his way through the writhing crowd, feeling more and more suffocated as he does.

He sees a guy leaning to close to this girl and he just _snaps_. Punches him right in the side of the head, feels something crunch under his knuckles as he does. He turns to the girl, maybe to ask if she’s okay, but she’s gone. He’s staring at the guy’s friends and he doesn’t feel a goddamn thing when he breaks their arms, their noses, hits them wherever he can.

The bartender yells something about leaving, so Keith does. Gets out, stands on the curb, feels the pleasant tingle of adrenaline working through his body.

He doesn’t go home. Not right away. He wanders for a few more miles, until his thighs burn, until he feels he might pass out from exhaustion. And then, only _then_ , does he begin to head home.

His mother is sprawled on the couch when he eases the door open. It creaks loudly on unoiled hinges. She shoots up, hair wild, eyes wide, and scrambles to lean over the back of the couch.

“Keith?” she asks, squinting into the darkness.

“Yeah, mom,” he manages to say.

He pretends he doesn’t feel her disappointment souring the air.

 

 

 

**Shiro**

He’s scrubbing a dish caked with ketchup when Matt leans against the doorframe, cordless phone tucked against his shoulder. He stops, mouth snapping shut, cheeks flushing as the pop song he’d been singing along to fills the kitchen with its disgustingly infectious beat.

Matt shoots him a knowing grin, eyebrows raised, and Shiro resists the ever-present urge to stick his tongue out at him.

“It’s for you,” Matt says, holding the phone out to him. His smile wavers just so. “It’s Keith’s mom.”

Shiro’s mind goes blank. Krolia’s calling him? He furrows his eyebrows, wiping his damp hands on a dry rag. He accepts the phone and watches as Matt pretends to busy himself by mopping the floor.

“Hello?”

“Shiro?” Krolia sounds relieved. “I’m sorry to call you at work.”

“It’s fine,” he says, attempting to smother the anxiety crawling up his throat. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s Keith. He didn’t…he didn’t come home.”

“He—what?”

“He’s hardly home anymore. He goes to school, or at least I think he does, and then he just disappears. I don’t know where he goes. Has he said anything to you?”

“No,” Shiro says, feeling useless as soon as he gets the word out. “My shift’s almost over. I’ll see if I can look around town.”

“You don’t have to,” Krolia says, though he can tell she’s incredibly thankful for the offer.

“It’s fine, no worries,” he says again, throat feeling tight. His hold on the phone nearly slips due to his clammy palms. “I’ll find him.”

“Thank you,” Krolia whispers, and the line goes dead.

Shiro pulls the phone away from his ear. Matt gives up the pretense of being occupied, leaning against the mop with a concerned expression on his face.

“I can close up if you want.”

“Huh?” Shiro breaks himself out of his daze. Matt jerks his chin towards the phone.

“It seemed important.”

“It’s Keith,” Shiro says numbly.

“Like I said,” Matt says slowly, almost smiling. “ _Important_. Go, it’s cool. I’ll finish up here.”

“Thanks, Matt,” Shiro manages to get out, before he’s ripping his apron off and scooping his keys off the table in the breakroom.

He’s in his car before he knows it, peeling out of Sal’s parking lot and speeding along, eyes roaming from place to place.

He and Keith have been friends for years, ever since they were children. Krolia and Shiro’s mother had been friends, up until the accident. She became somewhat of a second mother to him, and their families remained close.

Even so, he doesn’t know Keith. Not like he used to. Ever since his father died, he’s been distant. Angry. Shiro gets it, honest to god he does, but that doesn’t make it sting any less. He wants to help Keith, but sometimes it feels like there’s nothing he can do.

His tires squeal as he brings the car to a sudden stop. He’s storming across rain-sodden ground, mud squishing beneath his sneakers, puddles splashing onto his socks, dampening them. But none of that matters, because he sees Keith.

Keith, who’s sprawled on the bank of Lake Marshall, eyes closed. Shiro looms over him for a long moment, trying to think of what to say, when Keith’s eyes snap open and meet his.

“Your mom called me,” he settles on saying, plopping down beside Keith. He manages to only _slightly_ wince when the seat of his pants get wet. “At work.”

“Oh,” Keith says, voice devoid of any emotion, flat as anything, and Shiro’s mouth presses into a thin line on its own volition. “Did she?”

“What are you doing, Keith?”

Keith narrows his eyes. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

And Shiro nearly stops then, loses his nerve all at one, but he forces himself to push on. He’s doing this for Krolia, for _Keith_.

“You know what I’m talking about.”

Keith sits up, then, so that they’re shoulder to shoulder, and Shiro has to pretend that his skin isn’t burning at that small point of contact.

“Why do you care?”

He’s close, close enough that Shiro can see the way the moon casts shadows on his face, makes his cheeks look hollow, his eyes empty, and something, something so heavy, so intense, swirls in the pit of his stomach. Like a punch right to the gut, it leaves him breathless and aching.

He could lean over, he realizes, lean over and press their lips together. They’re close enough he could say it was a mistake, that he didn’t mean it, even though he honestly, truly, _did_.

“I—you’re my best friend,” he manages to get out, stammering over the words, feeling like he just might choke on them.

 

 

 

When Shiro drives Keith home, watches him disappear behind his front door, he thinks, for one brief, horrific second, that he’ll never see him again.

 

 

 

He does see Keith again, a week later. It’s three in the morning, and Keith’s standing on his porch, shivering even though it’s uncharacteristically warm for September.

“Don’t make me go,” he says, slurring over his words, his breath leaving the sharp stench of alcohol lingering in the air between them.

Even so, Shiro loops one of Keith’s arms around his shoulders and takes him inside, upstairs. They walk past his grandparent’s room with little noise, and he deposits Keith on the foot of his bed. His hands are shaking, he realizes, when they leave Keith’s side.

“Are you drunk?”

“Does it matter?” Keith asks, suddenly sounding so, so clear, and Shiro withers at the dark glare he pins him with.

He sits down at his desk stiffly, flicking on the lamp so they’re not forced to stay in the dark. He pretends to read for English, even as the words swim together in one big blurry mess.

“I can’t go back.”

“What?” Shiro asks, twisting around, and Keith’s sitting up, boots abandoned on the ground, back against Shiro’s headboard.

“Home,” Keith bites out, shaking his head. He bites at his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. “I can’t go back.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not home,” Keith snaps, deflating almost instantly. “Not anymore.”

 _I’m sorry_ sounds too hollow, like it won’t begin to fix anything. Like slapping a bandage over a gunshot wound. But he says it anyway, kicking himself when the words leave his mouth and Keith gives him a sad, bitter smile.

 

**Keith**

The next time he goes to Elysium, he loses his virginity in a dirty bathroom stall to an older man that looks at him like he’s a piece of meat. He stumbles out nearly an hour later, jaw aching, knees wobbling, and pointedly doesn’t look at his reflection as he scrubs his hands clean.

 

 

 

He doesn’t expect to see Shiro when he leaves the club, hands in his pocket and cringing every time someone gives him a suggestive look. Keith wipes his mouth and shuffles forward, until Shiro’s eyes widen and then narrow when he sees him.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Shiro says, voice tight, and Keith raises a brow.

“Nice to see you too.”

“What is wrong with you?” Shiro continues, drawing attention to them, and Keith stares at him icily. “Why do you keep doing this?”

“None of your fucking business,” Keith snarls, just to see the shocked look that crosses Shiro’s face. He storms off right after, feeling goddamn horrible as he does.

 

 

 

He doesn’t make it far. Shiro finds him not even five minutes later, and he drives them both to Lake Marshall. Keith sits on a rock and glares moodily out at the water as Shiro shuffles nervously beside him.

“Sorry for yelling back there,” he says.

“The fuck are you apologizing for?” Keith mutters. “You’re not the one who should be sorry.”

There’s silence, for a minute, and then Shiro says:

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He almost says no, out of pure instinct, but then stops himself. Takes a breath, in and out, and lets the words tumble out.

“I lost my virginity tonight,” he says, carelessly, and looks away when Shiro’s head snaps towards him. “In a shitty bathroom stall. It didn’t mean a fucking thing, you know. I hated every second of it.”

“Keith?” Shiro’s voice sounds thick, and Keith doesn’t want to see what kind of expression is on his face. “I’m—”

“Don’t you dare,” he growls, and turns to see Shiro snapping his mouth shut.

“Okay,” Shiro agrees, so fucking _agreeable_ , just like always, and Keith wants to scream because of it.

 

 

 

**Shiro**

The next time he sees Keith at Lake Marshall, angry, pissed off at every goddamn thing in the world, he kisses him.

Keith freezes and Shiro backtracks instantly, spewing apologies until Keith kisses him until their teeth click and he tastes blood. He’s thinking about whose it is when Keith shoves him into the car, into the backseat of the Camaro, where it’s hot and dark and cramped.

He only sees flashes of Keith, his pale, unmarked neck, his pearly white teeth, the way his dark hair spills over his shoulders like ink. He digs his fingers into bony hips as Keith sits on his lap, rolling into him with harsh grinds that make his dick _ache_.

It’s over, fast, because Shiro has never been touched by anything other than his right hand, and he feels shame roll over him in waves at the first sensation of damp boxers against his crotch.

Keith sits up, hands planted firmly on his chest, heaving for breath. He’s hard against Shiro’s thigh, and he lifts a hand to touch him. Keith grips his wrist, shaking his head, and that’s the end of it.

 

 

 

They don’t talk about it, of course. They don’t talk about a lot of things now.

 

 

 

“Are you okay?” Matt asks him carefully.

They’re at work, in the kitchen scrubbing dishes while Sal barks order at the cook. Shiro watches as Hunk rushes to comply, sweat beading along his brow. He’s completely in his element.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Shiro asks, and it sounds so much more defensive than it should.

“You’ve been off for a while,” Matt adds mildly, setting a clean dish aside and rolling his neck, groaning as his bones crack with a satisfying _pop_. “Just making sure everything’s good.”

“Yeah,” Shiro says, slowly, and Matt arches his eyebrows. He rushes to continue. “It’s good. Everything’s fine.”

It’s not. Not by a fucking longshot.

 

 

 

**Keith**

“Is it me?”

“What?” Keith looks up from his takeout, at his mother, who has her lips in a thin line.

She shakes her head, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead. She doesn’t say anything for a while, and Keith feels like he’s drowning in the ensuing silence.

“Are you angry that I lived and your father didn’t?”

He winces, actually physically jerks back at it, mouth dropping open. His mother watches him with razor-sharp eyes and he feels _sick_.

“Mom?”

“You don’t talk to me,” she says, sounding devastated. “You come and go when you please, and I don’t know what to _do_.”

She slumps into her chair, eyes watery, and Keith quickly averts his gaze.

“You…you never talk about him,” he says, and it feels too raw, too open. “Not anymore. It’s like we’re pretending he never existed.”

His mother’s expression softens. “I didn’t think you’d want to talk about it.”

Keith licks his lips, swallows past the lump in his throat.

“Maybe I do.”

“Okay,” she says, quickly, leaning forward and scrambling to grab his hand. “Okay, we can do that. Whatever you need. We can do it.”

The dam breaks, then, and they’re both sobbing over their Chinese food. His mother gets up to wrap him into a hug, the tight one she used to give when he was a child and walked into his parent’s room after a particularly bad nightmare.

“I’m sorry,” he says, even though sometimes he really hates those words.

“I know,” his mother says, pressing her tear-stained cheek against the top of his head.

 

 

 

 

“We should talk.”

It takes an insurmountable amount of effort to get the words out. Shiro’s standing in the middle of the parking lot, halfway to his car, keys in hand.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Keith says, shivering as a particularly strong gust of wind hits him. He crosses his arms over his chest and levels Shiro with a glare.

“Right, yeah,” Shiro says, nodding, unlocking the car and ushering him in.

The drive to Lake Marshall feels longer than usual. Keith kicks his feet up onto the dashboard and Shiro doesn’t even admonish him for it. He just starts at him, wide-eyed, and Keith wants nothing more than to wipe that look off his face.

“We shouldn’t have done that,” he says, picking at a loose thread on his shirt. “I fucked up.”

“Is that…” Shiro stops, trails off, clears his throat. “Is that what you think?”

Keith’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline.

“I took advantage of you.”

“You didn’t…I was—look, I wasn’t exactly complaining,” Shiro says, the bridge of his nose redder than the leaves outside.

“What?”

Shiro sucks in a deep breath. And then:

“I _like_ you,” he says, and there’s something so juvenile about it that Keith nearly laughs. Doesn’t, though, because that’s the last damn thing he expected his best friend since childhood to say.

“ _What_?” he wishes he could say something else, but his brain is practically dead, mind buzzing as he tries to comprehend Shiro’s words.

“I just. Keith, I want you to be okay. You’re my best friend and—”

He doesn’t finish because Keith kisses him. It doesn’t hurt, not like the last time, and something about it feels warm. Soft, even.

He pulls away, retreats back into his seat and ignores Shiro’s searching gaze.

“Like I said,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. “I fucked up. With you. With my mom. With everyone who gives a shit about me.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not. You know that.”

Shiro goes quiet.

“Keith?”

“Yeah?”

“Did it mean anything to you?”

“What?” Keith asks, turning to face Shiro.

“Us,” he says, slow, hesitant. “In the car. Did it mean anything?”

He doesn’t answer, not at first, because he doesn’t know what to say. He thinks about it, about having Shiro beneath him, shirtless, chest heaving, hands big and heavy on his hips, grey eyes wide and full of awe.

“I want it to,” he says, sounding so vulnerable that it _hurts_ to hear himself speak.

“Okay,” Shiro whispers, and Keith feels like his heart’s too big for his chest then. “Whatever you want.”

Kissing Shiro feels natural, normal. He leans into it and doesn’t question it, telling himself that he honest to god deserves this, more than anything in the world.

And hell, judging by the way Shiro melts into him, he’s not the only one.

 

 

 

**Shiro**

It takes time. Healing.

It takes a lot of time, quite frankly, and he’s speaking from experience on that. But he can see it starting to take shape, in the way Keith softens, his rough edges worn down, his ability to bare himself without lashing out first.

He’s at work again, in the break room staring at the ceiling when the phone rings. He reaches for it, holds it against his ear.

“Hello?”

“Shiro?” It’s Krolia, and he tenses up for a moment. “Sorry to bother you like this.”

“Is it Keith?” he asks, throat feeling tight, words coming out thin and shaky.

“I—yes,” Krolia says slowly. “I just wanted to thank you. For sticking by him.”

“You don’t need to thank me for that,” he says, cheeks flushing, sitting up ramrod straight. “I was just trying to be a good friend.”

“Still. Thank you.” She pauses. “Oh, and Shiro?”

“Yeah?”

“Try to bring him home on time tonight, okay?” There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, one that has Shiro choking on his own spit.

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

 

 

Keith’s leaning against his car when he gets off from work, smirking when Shiro perks up at the sight of him. He’s too happy to be embarrassed by it as he sweeps Keith up into a kiss.

“Whoa there, big guy,” Keith says, laughing, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Miss me?”

“Something like that,” he says, sliding his hands onto Keith’s waist and squeezing lightly. “Ready to go?”

Keith nods, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth. He buckles up as Shiro puts the car into gear, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against his thigh.

“What’s up?” he asks, shooting Keith a curious glance.

Keith presses back against his seat, shrugging.

“Nothing. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

Keith grins. “You.”

“Yeah?” Shiro bites back a smile. “What about me?”

Keith’s smile turns feral.

“Think you can keep your eyes on the road?” he asks, just as his fingers inch towards Shiro’s belt.

“Yes,” he says, not even ashamed of how breathy his voice already is, and Keith laughs, loud and rich.

 

 

 

He nearly crashes _twice_ , but he kisses Keith quiet when he points it out. They stay like that for a while, trading kisses between them, until he parts and whispers something like _I love you_ against Keith’s red, red mouth.

He panics, of course, until Keith kisses him again and says something that sounds suspiciously like _I love you too_.


End file.
